There is no world other than Elláda.
There never was, and there never needed to be.
Not because Elláda is vast, but because reality does not demand more than one place to bear the weight of existence.
Elláda stands not as the center of the world, but as the entire world itself, a stretch of land, sea, mountains, and ancient cities built upon memory, prayer, and humanity's failure to understand the Most High. The sky above it is no higher than any other sky, and its soil no holier than any other soil, yet it is there that everything happens, because there is nowhere else for history to hide.
The people call themselves Elliniká.
Not as a marker of blood or language, but as a quiet confession:
that they live in the presence of something greater than themselves, something they cannot see, yet cannot deny.
They never agreed about God.
Yet no one dared to say that He does not exist.
1.
In the old city that stands among stones older than prayer, Avraám Lín'koln sat alone on marble steps cracked by time.
He was not a priest.
Not a court philosopher.
Nor a holy wanderer.
He was merely an Elliniká, a human being who lived, breathed, and aged under the awareness that reality has a foundation that cannot be touched.
Before him stretched Ouranós, the sky of Elláda, calm in appearance and almost unchanged since the first generations looked upon it with fear and hope. That sky did not speak. It never did. Yet its silence was not empty; it was dense with a presence that could not be named.
Avraám knew one thing from childhood:
Theós does not dwell in the sky.
The sky is only a symbol, a field of vision onto which humans project their own limitations. Theós does not reside in space, does not sit literally in heights, does not move from one place to another. He is Aflos, without form; To Ápeiro, without limit; To Apólyto, who requires nothing in order to be what He is.
And yet, humans still look upward.
Not because God is above, but because humanity does not know where else to look.
2.
In Elláda, the sacred texts are called Vívlos.
Not because they explain God, but because they acknowledge the inability to do so.
Within the Vívlos it is written:
"The Theós that can be spoken is not the Theós that is eternal."
That sentence was never meant to be fully understood. It functions as a boundary, not an answer. Every Elliniká who reads it learns the same lesson:
that language collapses before reaching the Ultimate Reality.
Avraám read that sentence many times throughout his life.
He never felt enlightened.
Yet he never felt able to ignore it.
Theós, Anónymos, the Unnamed, fully exists. Not as a hypothesis, not as a psychological symbol, not as a cultural myth. He must exist, because without Him there is no standard of truth, no foundation of being, no reason why something should be preferable to nothingness.
Yet precisely because of that, He cannot be approached by reason alone.
Humanity can know that God exists,
but not who He is.
3.
Here lies the greatest paradox of Elláda: Theourgía.
Not everyone possesses it.
Not everyone desires it.
And those who possess it often wish otherwise.
Theourgía is not a power that rises from within humanity. It does not originate from the soul, the blood, or the will. It is a response, a faint echo of human intention that unexpectedly aligns with the objective truth that proceeds from Theós.
For that reason, Theourgía is never neutral.
Every manifestation of it always carries consequences:
upon the body,
upon the mind,
and above all upon the meaning of one's life.
Avraám never sought Theourgía.
He did not pray for it.
He did not even believe himself worthy of being touched by something so close to the divine will.
But Theourgía does not choose based on worthiness.
It occurs based on truth.
4.
On the other side of reality, not a place, not a space, but an existential condition, there exists something that also fully is.
Cháos.
Also called To Vrómiko Pnévma, the rotten spirit, not because it smells or has form, but because it is a will that rejects meaning itself.
Cháos is not a creation equal to Theós.
It does not stand opposed as two balanced forces.
It exists because destruction requires existence in order to destroy.
It desires that there be nothing.
And precisely because of that, it must exist.
Trapped within Vathiá Ávyssos, Cháos no longer acts directly. Its will seeps through intermediaries, entities that once beheld the light and chose rejection.
Eosfóros Avgerinós.
Or better known as Lucifer, the Morning Star.
His name before his fall was Helel, or Heylel, or Heilel.
5.
Avraám did not yet know all of this consciously.
Yet that afternoon, as the shadows of buildings lengthened and the wind carried dust from the old streets of Elláda, he felt something he could not name:
not a voice, not a vision, not a revelation.
Only an awareness that suddenly became heavier.
As if reality itself were paying attention to him.
He lowered his head.
His hands trembled, not from fear, but because something within him was answering something outside of him.
Theourgía did not erupt.
It did not shine.
It was present as a silence deeper than usual.
And for the first time, Avraám Lín'koln understood one truth that had never been written in the Vívlos:
That facing God is not about seeing.
But about enduring ignorance, without turning away.
His journey had not yet begun.
But its direction had been set.
Pros ton Theó.
Toward God.
Without guarantee.
Without a map.
Without certainty of salvation.
And Elláda, the only world, would bear the consequences.